If only in my dreams
by Quiet Time
Summary: Jack's wristband quivers once a year, reminding him of something he promised not to forget.  Sequel to 'The Night Before Christmas' and 'Letter to Santa'. ***Torchwood belongs to BBC/Starz and Santa belongs to children everywhere.


_I know, still haven't finished my Halloween fic and here's a Christmas one…but it IS Christmas, so all is forgiven, right?  
><em>_This piece is a sequel to my previous Christmas fics 'The Night Before Christmas' and 'Letter to Santa', so contains references to both of those and might not make a great deal of sense if you haven't read them. It is set after CoE and House of the Dead (so spoilers for both of those) but prior to MD._

_I hope you enjoy. Season's Greetings to you all._

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><p>Somewhere in the Vegas Galaxies, a man with old eyes shuffled into yet another soulless hotel room. At least this one had a window. He liked to see the stars. He needed the reminder that there was something out there older and lonelier than him.<p>

Jack dropped onto the bed with a groan wrenched from protesting muscles. This was a party planet, so there'd been dancing, then _dancing_, with someone whose name he'd already forgotten. Someone he hadn't promised to remember.

Not that he'd reached the stage of having to _try _to remember, not yet. In fact, Jack was still at the point where a bit of forgetfulness would come as a blessed relief. Not complete forgetfulness, of course, just enough to take the edge off. He didn't _want_ to forget. He'd _promised_ not to forget - but he yearned for enough of a buffer to look into another pair of blue eyes without aching, to drink coffee without wanting to throw up.

It would come with time. Jack was a reluctant veteran of the grieving process, so he knew these things, however hard it was to believe just at the moment. But right now, this minute, remembering simply _hurt_, and he desperately wanted to get to the place where memories would be a comfort instead of a whole separate source of pain.

Several sleepless hours later, Jack felt his wrist strap quiver. An alarm – but a reminder, not an alert. He checked the display and a tiny smile crept across his lips. It was that time again.

It was a pointless reminder, really, given that Earth's calendar held no significance for him anymore. A painful reminder, even. For upwards of a century, that particular event had sent Jack hurtling to London, afire with anticipation, only to return disappointed. He'd gotten so close, sometimes heartbreakingly so, screaming out his despair as the Tardis flickered into nothingness. He'd put it down to bad luck, or the time-stream watching out for itself, and he didn't want to remember anymore that those last-second misses had been intentional.

But there were the later memories too. Better ones, which always froze him in the act of deleting the alarm. Memories of the times when his last team, his _best_ team, lingered for Christmas drinks before Jack urged them out of the Hub, leaving it clear for the use of his regular Christmas Eve visitor. _The _Christmas Eve visitor. They were worth keeping, those nights, those fleeting moments when he was part of something purely_ good_.

Jack thought he might actually be able to sleep now, as he recalled all the effort he'd put into convincing Myfanwy that flying reindeers weren't good hunting.

-XXX-

The old man, who was not yet wearing his red suit, looked with resignation at the ridiculously complicated flight plan spread out across his desk. Christmas Eve would last a week, at least. Life at the North Pole had become considerably more awkward since the Rift over Cardiff inexplicably closed. Sure, they had their own entry right here, but it had cut the logistics puzzle down to manageable levels having that stable portal right on Europe's doorstep.

Mind, if the Rift had taken itself away, it had also given. The office door opened, and St Nicholas' very own Rift adoptee stepped through. Wearing a suit, as usual, but still obstinately refusing to conform to the customary 'Santa's helper' bottle-green. "I can handle being called an elf," he'd said, with a very interesting eyebrow action. "But I won't be a leprechaun." At least there'd been no dispute over the red shirt.

Santa smiled as a mug landed on his desk, squarely in the centre of a holly-decked coaster, releasing the ambrosial scent to which he'd rapidly – and happily - become addicted.

"Hello, Ianto."

-XXX-

On the very edge of sleep, Jack's eyes snapped open. For the first time, he found himself wondering how Santa managed the deliveries since Ianto closed the Rift with himself inside it.

It was a good thing the room had a mini-bar. Jack didn't want to forget, but he wouldn't mind dulling his memory, just a bit.

-XXX-

"Good morning, Sir," Ianto replied, placing another set of documents onto the desk, careful to select a spot well away from the coffee mug.

Santa sighed. Still with formalities. They weren't a formal lot at the North Pole, and this attitude hadn't done anything towards dispelling the wariness amongst the elves about this stranger their beloved leader had foisted upon them. Not that he'd had much choice, really. Unlike the others that occasionally fell through this end of Rift, there wasn't anywhere to send Ianto back_ to_, and he _had _sacrificed himself to save the world, after all.

"It's Nick. Or Santa. Or Father Christmas….really, take your pick, Ianto." He paused, then added, quite deliberately. "I've been telling you that since the night Jack first introduced us."

The enigmatic blue eyes did their usual trick of darting away from his gaze, but not before Nick registered the pain within them. It wasn't easy for someone with millennia of happy children to their credit to deal with the constant presence of so much raw sadness, but Nick couldn't help trying. Taking care of Jack's young man was the least he could do for his fellow immortal, after all the help he'd been over the centuries.

"He's still not back on Earth," Nick said, answering the unvoiced question. "Not even in the Milky Way. Different galaxy altogether."

Ianto's face did that 'mask' thing. "He's always been quite good at leaving," he noted. "But thanks for checking." Ianto cleared his throat. "Now," he continued. "I've been thinking of ways of cutting some time off your journey, and I think if we use the opening over Antarctica…"

-XXX-

Another year, another room. A room so expensive it was almost a crime to use it alone. It even boasted an intuitive massage bed, which had sounded dodgy enough to provoke Jack's interest.

Jack looked down at his wrist as the band quivered. Christmas Eve in Cardiff, and given the numbing effects of an Earth solar year and a head start on the mini-bar, the good memories were coming easier this time. A gentle smile worked its way onto Jack's face as he remembered that last Christmas, the best Christmas. The one where he'd finally come to the realization that if Ianto had to be exposed to the worst secrets of Jack's past, then it was time he shared the good ones, too.

Jack remembered Ianto's face when he'd met Santa. And the reindeer. Remembered Ianto falling asleep sitting up because he couldn't bear to leave the presence of wonder.

He remembered roast pork sandwiches, post-it notes delivered by model railway, and planting his name on Ianto's heart via a sticky label. Remembered a moment of realization that, though the fearless Captain Jack found himself lacking the courage to say it, Ianto's name was inscribed indelibly across his own.

At least, Jack reminded himself, at least he finally had found that courage. But he couldn't help wondering whether it really counted. He still wasn't convinced that the Ianto at the most haunted pub in Britain was _his _Ianto, rather than a clever piece of ectoplasm. Though if so, it had at least absorbed Ianto's nobility, at the end.

Jack groaned and flung himself onto the bed. The terribly clever mattress hummed in response as it detected the tension points in his muscles and began massaging them. Between the wash of memories and the whoosh of alcohol, he could almost convince himself it was strong Welsh fingers working out the knots. At least he wouldn't have any problems falling asleep this year.

-XXX-

"If it works again this year, we might consider establishing an auxiliary outpost at the South Pole," Ianto concluded, having spent the last hour explaining the new and improved flight plan.

It wasn't only the flight plan which had improved, Nick mused, surveying his assistant with a fatherly eye. The formal suiting had given way to a white shirt, with a red waistcoat but no jacket. Much more jolly. There was even an amusing tiepin, a tiny enameled Santa figure holding a coffee mug, which Ianto had evidently charmed the elves into making for him.

"Good work, Ianto," he approved, smiling as only Santa can. Ianto favored him with a smile in return, which was something of a major victory, given the young man's habitual air of sorrow. Not a good look for Santa's workshop, when you thought about it. Quite suddenly, Nick decided he was going to wipe the pain from those eyes, whatever it took. His mind worked quickly. "And I like to reward good work, as you know. But you must also know that I can't grant what you don't ask."

Ianto swallowed, looking down at his feet in their shined leather shoes. "It's not necessary, Sir. You took me out of the Rift, you gave me…" He waved a hand…."This...A purpose….I couldn't ask for more."

"Yes you can," Nick insisted. "And I want you to."

Ianto smiled again. He couldn't help it. That was as close as St Nicholas could get to a direct order, and they both knew it.

"So - What's your Christmas wish, Ianto?"

Ianto blinked against tears. "You know what it is, Nick," he whispered. "But you said….you said he's not on Earth, so…."

"That was last year," Nick answered blandly, watching with satisfaction as a spark caught behind those sad blue eyes. "He's back in our galaxy, now. Not that far, really, when you've got a Rift. And since I'll be using it anyway….."

Ianto swallowed heavily, eyes blazing with hope.

"You won't be able to stay," Nick warned. "But I could drop you off at the start of the run; pick you up at the end. That should give you," He paused to check the flight plan lying before him. "Twelve hours, minimum."

Ianto's eyes filled with tears. Nick reached across and patted his young friend on the shoulder. "Wrap up warm, lad," he suggested.

The merry eyes twinkled. As Ianto watched, speechless with gratitude, one lid lowered in a wink Santa might have learned from Jack. "Not that you'll need much clothing for your visit, but it gets cold on the sleigh."

Two smiles and a blush. Not a bad tally.

-XXX-

The massage bed was worth the extra credits, Jack concluded. It really did feel like warm hands on his back. He hadn't realised it had an olfactory feature as well. The management were very clever if they'd managed to pick up the significance of the date - had they somehow hacked into his wristband? - because his nostrils were filling with all the scents associated with Christmas. Brandy wafting off a good Christmas pudding, cinnamon overlying the sweetness of the apple sauce on that roast pork, and….and…

Coffee.

Jack flipped over, eyes wide. The room should be dim, because he hadn't bothered raising the lights. But there was an almost blinding spark in the corner. A spark that grew into a glowing ball of flickering gold light that he hadn't seen since…..since…. The Rift.

Something blocked the glow as it began to fade. No, not some_thing_. Some_one_. Someone who smelled like….Someone who looked like…someone who _felt _like. Jack grabbed, before it could vanish, and it – he - was real. The hands were real, and the smell was real, and the tears landing on his face weren't his own….

"Merry Christmas, Jack," said the booming voice Jack remembered from a hundred Christmases, and with that, the glow died back to a spark, leaving the echo of a laugh, and a dream become real in Jack's arms.

-XXX-

He hadn't forgotten, but he hadn't remembered that it had been _this _good.

"How?" Jack asked, with a sense of wonder he thought he'd lost long ago. "You….you died, Ianto. You died in my arms."

Ianto shrugged against him, warm and strong and real. "And you brought me back."

"And the Rift took you," Jack insisted, holding on tight to prove to himself this wasn't really a dream. A dream come true. But the man in his arms was too stubborn to be a dream, because dreams didn't wrinkle their noses and argue.

"Your friend Santa found me," Ianto explained, as though it was an everyday occurrence. "I was in the Rift." His voice became muffled in Jack's neck. "And we knew He uses the Rift, so…." A chuckle rumbled against Jack's chest. "I'm Santa's right hand man, now. Honestly, that lot was even more disorganized than the Hub."

Jack thought he might be goggling. This_ was_ real. Only Ianto would disparage the North Pole. He was real, and beautiful.

Almost too beautiful. Pure, white, unscarred. Like an angel. An angel. He _had_ died, hadn't he? Jack shook his head and banished logic. Any angel who did what Ianto was doing that very second would forfeit its wings. Then again, Ianto wasn't wearing any wings. Or anything else….

"I know it's crazy, Jack," Ianto muttered. "But I'm here now, and I can't stay for long, so can we talk later?"

They did talk. Later. Talked until their throats were dry. They said all the things that didn't need saying, just because they were good to hear, and amongst the joy of the reunion was the knowledge that there might not be another chance.

Jack held Ianto tighter as a pinprick of light grew appeared again. "Don't go" he pleaded. "Stay with me. Please."

Ianto captured Jack's face within his hands. "I can't," he said firmly, and Jack would have felt resentful except the voice held as much pain as his own.

The light expanded, until there was no mistaking it for anything except what it was. A Rift portal, with a red-suited figure at its heart.

Jack's arms tightened further. "It's too soon," he protested, as Santa stepped from the pulsating ball of light, sorrow radiating from a face made for smiles.

"Has it been twelve hours already?" Ianto asked, with a catch in his voice. "It's gone so fast."

"It's been longer," Nick said gently. "It's time to go, Ianto."

Ianto made an attempt to rise; an attempt foiled by Jack's clutching arms. "I can't stay," he repeated. "I can't, Jack. I would if I could."

Jack released him, slowly, savoring the last seconds of contact. He huddled back beneath the sheets that still bore Ianto's scent, watching hungrily as he moved into position beside Nick in the circle of light. "_Are_ you real?" Jack asked, realizing a heartbeat later that he didn't want to know. If this _was_ a dream, he didn't want to make it shatter.

Nick's smile slipped back into its usual place. "Now that's the question, isn't it? Always has been."

Ianto smiled the heartbreaking smile of angel, which perhaps he really was, after all. "We're real, Jack." The smile morphed into the cheeky one that Jack liked – loved – the most. "Just like the fairies in Peter Pan," he added. "As long as you believe in us, we're real."

The Rift reached out to encompass the two figures, and Jack found himself on his feet, stretching out an imploring hand. Ianto's hand reached for his, passed _through_ his as it pulled away, leaving Jack's fist closed around a grief-sharp nothingness. An instant later, the room was dim again.

-XXX-

The mattress wasn't that good after all, Jack thought, as he woke. He ached all over, and his eyes hurt. Had he cried in his sleep? He lay back and tried to recapture the fragments of the dream, tried to let the joy he'd felt overcome the sting in his eyes as fresh tears grew to replace the old. Oddly enough, his hand stung, too. Probably because he had it clenched so hard, Jack concluded, wincing at the returning feeling as he coaxed it open.

And there, lying in his palm, was something tiny in size, yet big enough to fill all the cracks in his broken heart.

A tiepin. An exquisitely crafted image of Santa. With a coffee mug.

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><p><em>Joy to you all and thanks for reading.<em>


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